I’m at a loss tonight. I usually have something percolating in the back of my head; a topic I can bring out when my life fails to provide fodder.
But tonight my brain is empty. Also, there’s a Dalek on Craig Ferguson, which is highly distracting. (“Turn off the TV,” I hear you saying. Silly people. It’s like you don’t even know me.)
Anyway, I read a bedtime story to my boys tonight, because I’m just that awesome a mother. Tonight’s selection: No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed, an epic tale of a curfew, disobedient children, pain and suffering, monkey doctors who answer their phones in the middle of the night, and why your mother is always right.
At least, that’s what it used to be.
Finish this line: “Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said…”
If you answered, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed,” you’re apparently not of my generation. Or you had watered-down bedtime stories.
If you answered, “That’s what you get for jumping on the bed!” Well, then, you’re my people.
That’s not just me, right? Isn’t that how it ended back when we were kids? It wasn’t just a fun little story about silly stupid monkey children who can’t manage to stay on the bed. It was a cautionary tale. “See what happens when you don’t listen to your mother? You fall off the bed and the doctor says I told you so!”
I just had the best book idea ever.
I’m going to bed now. I obviously need more sleep.